


Just The Tip

by Oakentide



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Dom Craig, Dom/sub, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stress Position Play, Sub Stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21544114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakentide/pseuds/Oakentide
Summary: A friendly game of darts at a college house party gets a lot hotter than anyone expected.
Relationships: Stan Marsh/Craig Tucker
Kudos: 42





	Just The Tip

It was such a nice party. Why does that pouty little fuck have to be here? He's leaning, with a contrived slump, up against the wall right next to Token's dart board. Detached brooding or brooding detachment, I don't even know. His eyes, strewn with eyeliner, are lidded - but I can see the tension in his cheeks. He _can't_ look wide awake, but he can't just _close_ his eyes, or you'd mistake him for being asleep. I didn't even want to play darts, but the fact that I _can't_ because he won't move is so god damn aggravating.

"Hey Craig! Shots?"

Clyde's already spilled some beer all down his shirt. Hell yeah I'll have some shots. Maybe it'll distract me from the faux goth getup that "Raven" has got going over there.

We take a few, then I ask of Clyde, loud enough for Stan to hear.

"Sure, and we'll see if I can still beat you at darts when we're piss drunk."

"Right on! This ain't ain't it, chief!"

God I love that dumbass. Never change, Clyde.

I take another look at Stan. He's like a deer trapped in headlights. More so than usual. This is _fantastic_. He figured out the best place to be a sad little scene kid over an hour ago, and this is the spot he'll go to after he's grabbed a drink or made just enough conversation with people. And now he has to figure out where he's gonna go for this whole darts game.

"What rules do we play?"

"Let's go 701. Doubles in, doubles out."

"Are you fucking serious!? I don't even know if I’ll hit the board right now, dude."

Stan _finally_ looked up, and we locked eyes. It's really hard to stare someone down who's pretending his shoes are the most interesting thing in the room. Definitely the best part of his outfit, since they're not pastel black.

It’d be a shame if you missed the board, Clyde. It's kinda dangerous there, Stan, are you going to move?"

It's a hot minute before he replies. When I'm watching my friends (and Stan) play football, I really enjoyed seeing this defiant look. There's no way he's going to move, and it's a personal, burning thing for him. But Clyde can't throw for shit.

"Just stay behind the line, asshole. I bet you can't even throw it this far."

That motherfucker.

At this point, it's hard for me to not notice that we've drawn the attention of the whole room. I don't think Stan has realised yet, he's still trying to stare me down. I walk his way, with clear purpose. I'm going to step to the side at the last moment and grab my darts, but my chest is puffed out, and it looks like he thinks I'm going to try and move him against his will.

For just a second, it almost seems like he wants that. His face softens, then the fire's back, hotter than earlier. He's still pouting, and I couldn't help smirking.

"Back off, Craig."

This was so ridiculous. But I just _know_ Stan was rationalising why I would want to move him. Like there needs to be a reason besides "I can, and it's fun."

We're toe to toe. I place my left hand on his right shoulder, and with my right I reach for my darts. My hand's barely got weight on him. Spindling fingers are spread across his whole shoulder.

Did he _wince_ as we made contact? Really?

I think my game is postponed. This is just too rich.

I'm licking my lips, and I don't think Stan knows how to handle this. His upper lip is firm, but shaking. So much tension and effort waiting to be released. I want that to happen all at once, I won't leave this smouldering for much longer.

I can't even remember if he can fight. Is that a thing that will happen if I fuck with him?

The room is dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Certainly I can hear his heart pounding from this close. I grip his shoulder a little harder, and he looks a little surprised, but slowly moves his hand up to mine.

He replies, a husky, conspiratorial whisper, that's only loud enough for me to hear.

"You d- ... you don't _want_ to do this, Craig."

I think I get it now. He isn't sure how to stop this without escalating things. Which sounds like a perfect thing for me to do.

I loosen my grip, letting two darts fall to the floor, just as I twist my whole body, pulling him into the path of the dart I'm driving into his face. I hear a high pitched shriek, and since this party's a complete sausage fest that's absolutely Clyde.

I stop just short of his face, of course. He's a lot stronger than me, but he was still loose, and was taken by surprise.

Holy Christ did he flinch.

The fear in his eyes is intoxicating. Am I getting a little hard from this? I don't move, except to slowly move the point of my dart a little closer to where his nose ended up, to a point maybe an inch or so away from him. He's still staring back at me.

He has to know how obviously he flinched, but hasn't processed it yet. I can't even blink, or I might miss the moment that fear turns into humiliation.

Stan's eyes are watering. I'm maybe half an inch from his eye, but he's frozen in place. I move the point of my dart again, across his field of view, past his left eye to just on his temple.

He gasps as I press with moderate pressure against his skin. I didn't draw blood, there won't even be a mark.

But I _know_ that gasp.

I push a little harder. Stan takes in a sharp breath. It hurt him, but not enough that he'd cry out. A little wince suiting someone who stubbed their toe. I keep the point pressed to his face, but turn the dart around, so more of the side is touching him. I slide it down the side of his face, lightly scoring him with the tip as I do so.

Unbelievable.

He's tilting his head away from me. He wants this on his neck.

"Mmm....."

I may have found the biggest fucking bottom since Tweek.

Speaking of him, I look over my shoulder at the little crowd we've formed.

Clyde is sad munching on _hor d'oeuveres_. Sorry buddy, I'll have to play with you later.

Token is scowling, and if it were possible, he'd also rolling his eyes at the same time.

None of Stan's shitty friends are here, but if they were, I'm sure that Kyle would be crying onto Cartman's shoulder _, why can't it be me_?, and the fatass with an evil grin that says, _no, tonight, it **can** be you_, as he plies Kyle with drinks and slowly leads him away - to _a quiet spot where we can talk_.

Kenny would be forgettable somewhere that I'd have already forgotten.

I look at Tweek last. He's blushing, his hands are in his pockets, one _much_ deeper than the other one, and he's just realised that I'm looking at him. He's stepped about ten feet back behind everyone else.

I'd better get back to this before someone turns around and realises he's touching himself through his pants. You do you, sweetie.

Still pressing the point of the dart, I run a little scratch up against the underside of his jaw. Pout finally makes room for pucker as Stan presses his lips together. It looks better on him, and his head's tilted back, whole body sinking. I tower over him as he continues to wilt under the touch.

It’s downright criminal that Stan managed to get this thirsty without someone to take care of him.

I push against his jaw with the sharp point, nudging him to tilt a further back as I stand up straight. I lean down and softly press dry lips against his.

What a shameless little boy. Whips his tongue out immediately. I keep my lips closed tight, and in defeat he starts lapping against my lips and cheek. Big blue eyes pleading for more. I bare my teeth, ready to bite his tongue, then realise it’s just what he wants.

I grip his shoulder, painfully, and push it down, forcing Stan on his knees. He's panting, cheeks flushed. My hand moves to grip his black beanie and the hair under it. I won't let go for some time.

In my other hand, I start flicking the dart between my fingers a few inches in front of his face. I stop the last motion just short of catching the tip of his nose, but he barely even reacts to any of it. Driving the point with a soft motion, I prod his face back against the wall. He has to shift his body, but he's now sitting, legs straight, leaned back.

His cheeks are flushed, but he’s furious, even as he whimpers in pain at how hard I forced him into the wall.

I won't lie. Whining impotently is hardly what I expected of Stan in this situation. I expected a little more fight.

But modern problems require modern solutions.

I take a couple steps forward and point to the zipper of my jeans with the dart. After a few seconds, he brings trembling fingers to the fly, and his grip slips at the last second.

"Useless."

I undo my own fly, and leave him to fish my cock out of the slit in my boxer shorts.

Stan's fingers are delightful as he starts experimentally playing with my dick. I loosen my grip on his hair and beanie, but take it off, rubbing my finger tips into his scalp while running fingers through his hair.

He moans, and he works his hands down my shaft, stroking my balls, trying to get a feel for what makes me tick.

I really appreciate a sub who knows his place.

I remove his black, oh so _unique_ beanie, and fling it towards the stunned onlookers. I work my hands through his hair as he's stroking my cock, biding my time. Just as he's comfortable again I tightly grab as much of his hair as I can. He's surprised enough from this that I can pull his head back, pressed once more up against the tip of his nose, his head held painfully just outside its normal range of motion.

"Too slow. Suck my dick, _Raven_."

I shuffle forward, his neck shaking just a little from the strain. From this position he couldn't move back, and his watering eyes were too fixed on that point less than a quarter inch from his eye for him to look at anything else.

I easily slide into his gaping mouth, my foreskin rolling backwards at the token resistance of his tongue, frozen in place like everything else.

Speaking of Token, I hear his voice from behind me.

"I'm out."

I ignore him and his receding footsteps as I concentrate on pushing my shaft and my exposed head along Stan’s tongue. Would it be too much to ask for him to do something with his lips? He’d suddenly gone limp, as I realise a roll of paper towels has landed at my feet behind me.

"I'll... be in my room. I guess."

I look over and see Token leaving the room for what will likely be the last time this evening. Tweek's cheeks are bright red, and he's now standing behind the bar, but we made eye contact while he was touching himself to this scene before. He knows this pretence fools no one.

Clyde, out of snacks to distract himself with, doesn't follow Token.

He's far too busy _not looking_ at me dominating the all American quarterback turned pop punk Marilyn Manson.

Just now, I start to feel some half hearted lapping at the underside of my cock with Stan's tongue.

I let my dart point move to the side, again lightly scoring his face just beside his eye. I pull myself out of Stan, and then lean down, whispering.

"I wasn't going to _actually stab you_ , dumbass. It's just a-"

 _Ngh_.

I cross my legs and start to sink to my knees. That _fucker_. Stan’s the first to say something, through gritted teeth betraying how hard he just grabbed my junk.

"Fuck you, Craig."

When I'm on the ground, he _finally_ releases my balls. Jesus Christ. At some point I dropped my dart.

"I like your style, but you cupped my balls _way_ too ha-"

Interrupted again. At least this time it's a tongue in my mouth. His hot breath on my face was nice, but again Stan was working my cock and playing with my balls extremely gingerly, with a lot of control. His other hand was fiddling with the buttons on my jacket, dropping hints but not trying to remove anything. He broke off the kiss first, but not too far back. Our foreheads were still touching, mine humming with his voice as he spoke.

"Don't do the eye thing. Shelly.”  
  
He furrowed his brow at that last word, then continued after a brief pause.

“Also, I don't wanna talk about it."

His hands found my wrists, pressing them hard enough that my fingers splayed out reflexively. He placed his wrists against my palms, holding them there until my fists softly closed around them.

Again, he kissed me, but briefly - mostly to nibble at the bottom of my lip - then continued. "As you were..."

I pull his wrists together, and then place them behind his head.

I needed to take over again, quickly. After a few seconds of harshly pressing his wrists together, I soften my grip on his left, letting it hang by his side.

"Lift up your shirt. Keep it there."

He does as ordered, and as the first glimpses of that dark, tasty treasure trail are exposed, I quickly get a read of the room.

To the surprise of no one, I'm not the only one wanting to check out how our secretive jock goth has filled out. You’d think that Clyde would have seen enough of this in the locker room.

Maybe I should get back into sports.

I pick up my dart again, this time softly nudging his cheeks to make him lie down on his back. I hold my body above his, facing down and the other way. My lips brush against his neck, trailing soft bites down his chest.

I take sweeping, greedy laps with my tongue, tasting the trickles of sweat seated in the wispy hairs running down the centre of his chest. I spoil myself, and look further down.

Never have tight emo jeans looked this tight. The way they're looking, I think I'd just need to mouth his bulge and they'd actually _break_.

I test this, wet spit running haphazardly down his jeans and soaking into them. I hear pained moans, but don't realise the odd quality to them until I up. With his free hand, he’s stroking his chest with dainty scratches of his own nails.

I pick up my dart, then softly drag it around and along his chest, as he whimpers. His fingertips are tucked inside the waist of his jeans – the clearest signal not written in English that he wants these pants off. He cries out, louder than the ambient bottom noises, as the tip of my dart flicks his nipple, already firm with passive resistance.

Of course, I wanted a _gasp_. I needed to hear it again, and then deny him. Just above Stan's hipbone is a spot where his fingers kept coming back to - which sounds promising. Moans and whimpers.

I push the dart, pressing harder as Stan gets louder, until I know I've broken skin. I know this area is harmless - Tweek likes my nails here all the time - but I'm finally rewarded with my gasp, then I stand up.

He tries to follow suit, but I shove him roughly against the wall. Stan finds purchase against it, trying to rise, but I'm already all over him. I slap his hand away, knocking it off the wall. He catches himself against the ground with his other hand, but it's at an awkward angle. Stan strains to hold himself up before adjusting his position. His inner forearm might already have bruised a little, and the pain shows in his eyes as he glares at me, as if to say, "the fuck did _I_ do, asshole?"

We're new to this. By telling me _not_ to put the dart point near his eye, on account of his god damn _childhood trauma_ (stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ), he has given me tacit permission to dominate him. But still, maybe he'll never do this again after tonight - back to the jacked goth douchebag, pining after _girls_ for some reason. So I think I have to be more explicit with him. I can't wait for us to learn each other, and I know he’ll be into this.

"You've done enough leaning against a wall for one night, _Raven_. Stay a half a foot away from it, then put those hands behind your head. I like how they look, there."

For this next part, I have Clyde to thank. I command Stan to do the number one thing that my best friend complains about after training.

"Show me your _ghost squat_."

I clap my hands twice, drowning out his groan, then barked out, "And show me some fucking _hustle_."

This exercise goes by quite a few names, most of them racist. Hence, ghost squat. His heels stay planted on the ground, spread far enough apart that there's room for his pelvis. I know that he can get his ass to the grass, and he _knows_ that I know. On his face is the very healthy fear of what will happen if he half asses _anything_ that I tell him.

 _Christ_ this is hot. I can't help myself. I'm stroking my cock again and staring holes into Stan's hungry, _needy_ eyes. Needs to please me. Needs to be a good boy.

Needs this bomb ass dick.

He's already sweating, and probably hating himself. His muscle conditioning is enough that even after a heavy training session, and a light night drinking, this position held isometrically is still all about pain tolerance. He’s _just_ tipsy enough that he has none of that right now.

An errant stroke of my fat, juicy cock and I've accidentally flung a globule of precum onto his cheek. With his eyes, he searches for approval (mmm... good boy.... I nod), then he extends his tongue just far enough to lick himself clean. Even a slight strain can be overwhelming in this position, and when he's done, he lets out a huge breath that I barely realised he had been holding in.

He keeps the squat and the pain position with his arms, but sinks his posture, panting as his body hunches forward from its own weight. I don't know why he's having so much trouble. I haven't even missed a beat while I'm working my cock.

Soon, he's caught his breath, and rises again, puffing his chest out just a little and standing up straight with military discipline. He's staring straight forward, practiced and tense, but it's not long before his eyes run amok, beaming impatient hunger all around my dick, with the odd detour to my eyes. A pilgrimage for alms.

This subservience is _wasted_ on girls. I _need_ to figure out how I'm keeping this one.

With long, slow strokes I keep jerking off. He hasn't moved his head an inch, but we've held eye contact for about a minute like this. I take a step towards him and run my fingers through his hair. It's like silk - I'm _so_ glad that this stupid goth phase didn't mean he'd have to ruin the texture with cheap dye.

Whenever I lightly grip a lot of hair, he flinches a bit, but I train him not to expect me to yank him again, reducing that response to a general ambience of small tremors. He doesn't know whether I'm just doing this to surprise him with a hard pull later, and neither do I.

I run that hand down along his cheek, caressing it, before I cup my fingers around his chin and gently tilt his face up.

I stop stroking, but leave my foreskin pulled back, and speak as I rest the exposed head in his mouth.

"Good. You can have just the head. Move your upper body as much as you want."

He comes to life, his puckered lips drawing back sloppy, moist pressure onto my head. His tongue lapped up the precum from around my head and periodically squirting out from me, assisted by the spit he'd been working up drooling since I first got my dick out.

He tilted his chest backward and forwards, ending with his lips sliding up and down my head. After a few times doing this, instead of bringing his lips forward he closed his mouth completely, then peppering the head of my cock with chaste kisses. Once or twice he let his fully extended tongue go to town, seeming to enjoy how far back he could lick from.

I'm a little disappointed by the relief on his face. I was hoping to exhaust him by now, even knowing his endurance, but it looked like I'd bored him. And that wouldn't do.

Luckily I had a few more tricks to try.

"You can have one arm."

Stan's left shoulder dropped like it had leprosy, but it wasn't long until he was jerking me off, with more of that _irreverent_ vigour.

Good instinct, but I gave him that because he needs it for something else.

I shift my hands roughly around to the back of his head, pushing back, preventing him from going anywhere but forward. He stayed motionless, save for his swirling tongue, waiting for direction. I don't doubt he could resist this, but he _wanted_ to be trained. I slowly brought my cock forward again, into his mouth, just forward enough that he could wrap his black lips around the head.

When he did, I stroked his hair and tickled him a little under the chin.

"Good boy"

" _Don't_ let go."

I guided his hand so that the palm touched the ground, and Stan was putting weight on it immediately. I very slowly shifted my weight onto the back of my heels, telegraphing a step backwards that I intended to be _glacial_ in speed. Before taking jt, I scuffed my shoes across the gap between us to trace a line just in front of his feet. His mouth was occupied, but he nodded as best he could, closing his eyes for emphasis.

His body moved a little behind his head, even when I'd taken the full step backwards. His centre of gravity was still not far from his feet. It wouldn't have been ideal, but he still wouldn't have needed the arm for balance here. But I wanted to see him straining.

"Lose the shirt."

He quickly retreated to the "rest" position from earlier, pulled his shirt over his head, and then returned to where he was carefully after tossing the shirt away.

My eyes followed the shirt then checked out the room. Tweek was nowhere to be seen; either he was cleaning up or had decided not to disgrace himself in the living room. I couldn't blame him. I know he got off to the _idea_ of this kind of treatment, but his fortitude was inconsistent and extremely hard to read.

I love him too much to even try anymore.

And that left us with one fan, who apparently had run out of other stuff to stare at while averting his eyes from us.

I wish I could say he was curious, but he looked confused more than anything. But fluster was fluster, and I _did_ enjoy the colour that had reached his cheeks.

"Stay or go, Clyde, but either way please close the door."

And that, right there, might have been the first time he'd _thought_ about whether he wanted to sit here and watch. I wasn't without sympathy. Inaction feels like less of a choice. But I'd leave him to that.

I took a step back, then another. His mouth followed, then his body. He was keeping everything above the ground but his hand and feet, and his back was straightening out. His taut chest and stomach, both packed with muscle, was finally at least looking like it was working.

I tapped his other shoulder, finding the bobbing motion of him hopping using his front hand to be distasteful. He'd reached the end of his tether, so I crouched down, and then came down on my knees, while still moving backwards.

His chest was an inch above the floor, but still only his hands and feet touched the ground. Stan was using only his lips and neck to blow me, now, but he could be using them a little more.

"You're slacking off, Stan. I want my cock in the back of your throat."

Still on my knees, I walk them forward, very pleased to make him gag a little. His body was already trembling, but now to have his lips back at my head, he needed to move between fully extending a planche and being about half a foot from it, a position with less support.

It was great to finally have his mouth around my whole dick. I'm glad I waited, instead of just skull fucking him like I wanted to. This was nice.

After a few minutes, he was shaking so much that it was giving a weird, asymmetrical quality to his cock sucking, so I began to give him a little assistance. Just a few soft thrusts, enough to keep him lined up. I'd been too distracted to really think about what Clyde might be doing, then got my answer.

A door slammed shut. A lock clicked.

And Clyde, arms by his sides, back pressed against the wall like he needed to keep the whole world out, was panting.

".......may I?"

**Author's Note:**

> The last part is still to be written. I'll add the threeway and Styde tags once it's up, out of respect for people who search by tags.


End file.
